


When Waking Up

by extentia



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Oneshot, hunger games before katniss, maybe the 56th hunger games?, that works, that's fabrics in this story, tribute from district 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:02:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4649775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extentia/pseuds/extentia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ONESHOT. Moire Breslow, of District 8, get reaped into the hunger games. It's great because she's smart. It's great because her district gives her little reason to live her life. But then again, this is the hunger games. Maybe she will die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Waking Up

     The sky was lit up in purples and pinks. For a few moments the last night, the whole atmosphere was lit up is a deathly red, as if the end of days were upon us, finally. I moved to the window to look out at it, looking for signs of a capital hovercraft dropping bombs or poisonous gasses on top of us. With no obvious signs of foul play, I left the window. It was too boring to stare out of any more.

     The city was empty to anyone who would look, but buildings were full of family after family. I’m on the sixth story of the tenement house. I’ve haven’t lived here long. My family and I had to leave our previous home when it fell apart a few years ago. Padu Porainey, our previous neighbor, lived there before he was reaped into the games. When he came back, he moved, but Mrs. And Mr. Porainey stayed. I don’t know why they wouldn’t want better things. It has always been my dream to escape this dead wasteland, but it was never worth the cost.

     We were born lucky and we inherited a single-family home from my mother’s side. We still have had to endure being without goods and with boredom, but we never had to squeeze into a small series of rooms with neighbors just feet away. A few months after Padu returned to our district, his parent’s home caught on fire. Tragically, we learned Mrs. And Mr. Porainey were not able to escape before the fire devoured them. It was such a sight to imagine, the magnificent flames leaping towards the sky, as if they wanted to claim more victims. My mother said the structure toppled over onto our home after the fire had extinguished itself. I was at school, training the first years. I teach them basic information about sewing and fabric-craft. After they master what I know, they move on to the next station, and the next, and then work at a factory the rest of their life. I pity them, sometimes, their future picked out for them already. Then, I realize, my future is chosen already, too. I will teach mundane skills to children for the rest of my life.

     When I was seven, just starting out, like them, my father sat me down and asked what I wanted to do for our district. I told him I didn’t know. I told him that I didn’t want to work, ever. I just wanted to sleep and play. Maybe out of kindness, or his own greed, he didn’t send me on the path to factory work. It costs too much, he said, and he was right. Families were paying in extra tesserae. We, the teachers, take this food as payment. I’m lucky to not have had to ever put my name into the running for the games more than the obligatory one time. This is the last year I have to worry about being reaped.

     I don’t sleep well. Mother and father tell me I could trade for medicine that would let me sleep, but I would rather just be sleepless. The permanent purple circles under my eyes make me seem more myself. It’s the only thing about my physical body I feel true affection for, it’s a mark of my struggle. I lay awake sometimes, thinking about nothing, then thinking about my life. It seems so fruitless to even live, when our futures are always going to be plagued by duty to the Capitol. I never feel ready for the rest of my life. Mother keeps telling me to think of it, so the choices I make now will not make me regret my past, when I am aged and withered. I can’t bear to imagine it. I know I’ll be unhappy for a long time. Maybe I’ll get married, but that isn’t what I want right now.

     When I think of the future, I can only think of my eventual death, the empty echo of black nothingness awaiting, listening in on our every conversation, searching for the right cue to strike out it’s effortless claws and grab us all. I am wide awake, in the grips of a panic attack, at that thought. I had begun to think that sleep was close, before my mind wandered to the thought, ‘I am going to die’. Even in the knowledge of it’s inescapabilty, I seamlessly manage to forget my mortality until some quiet moments in the night, where the truth sinks in. I reject it every time. In no time at all, my anxiety is gone. I am fine again.

     Tomorrow is the last reaping I will ever have to attend. I’ll join the throngs of people in District 8 who abandon these broadcasts every year. In fact, I could even stop watching them this year, I acknowledge. Even if I get reaped, which I probably won’t, I wouldn’t be obligated to watch one more single murder for my own preparation. The wall clock reads 04:00 before I finally drift off into a different world.

     I dream of flashing by tree lines and the night, lit up by stars and a bright moon. There’s always something lurking out of my sight, as I frolic through fields of long grass and wet dirt.

     My mother is at my bedside, shaking me awake to get dressed. I look to the clock; it reads 06:36.

    “Hurry now, Moire, we don’t have all day.” She leans down towards me and cups me hand around my cheek, “The Lomeli’s are waiting.”

     Scarlet Lomeli is the only one outside of work I spend time with. Our families have traveled to the reaping center together since we were both of age. Neither of our parents tune into the Hunger Games. We plan to quit watching them together. Maybe she’ll want to start today. Once my mother has left the room I pull my bag of clothes from under my bed to find an outfit to wear to the reaping. I settle on a silk high-waisted red and black paisley skirt and a moss green shirt, which I cover with a black cashmere cardigan.

     My shoes are plain, but I have been saving up tesserae to get new ones. The only pair I have are from my first reaping, short black boots with a small heel. They aren’t very useful once winter hits, but I use my father old boots when it does. I quickly shove my other clothes back into my bag and put it where I got it from. I rush down the many flights of stairs to where I know I’m awaited.

     “Hey, mom and I brought apples!” Scarlet screeches excitedly. “They cost us a few of the tesserae we’ve been saving up, but it’s worth it.”

     “We brought bread for us all.” My dad adds.

     We eat a lot more than we normally would because we have to walk for so long to get to and from the reaping center. All of the food is still cheaper than buying train tickets there. By 9:30, we arrive at our destination. There, the peacekeepers are already set up and receiving all of the potential-tribute’s blood samples. I hug my parents and hold Scarlet’s hand as we walk to the 18 year old's line.

     “It’s almost over for us.” She whispers into my ear, resting her head onto my shoulder from her place behind me in line.

     “I didn’t think we’d last so long, really.” I admit to her. Neither of us speak as the peacekeeper pricks my hand, then hers. We go to our designated spot and wait for the rest of the children in the district to join us.

     “Once we’re done here,” I begin, “do you want to spend the day with me? We could sunbathe on the roof of your building or something.”

     She agrees but frowns after a moment, “I’m still scared we’ll be reaped. I need this to be over.”

     I grasp her hand again and hold it, tightening my grip to give her strength. I stare at her pursed lips and worried eyebrows, admiring her beautiful features. She has big brown eyes and long, natural hair. Her brown skin glows, as if she were fed by the sun itself. She would be married within the coming years. I have tried to convince her to never have children, so that they may never be subjected to the torture of the games. She just quotes that the odds are in our favor, in a deadpan drone whenever the subject comes up. I don’t want to pay attention, but as Milo Cartmello, the District 8 Escort takes stage, I am finely tuned to his words.

     “Hello,” Milo begins, waving his hands in a wide arc, “And welcome to the beginning of the 66th Hunger Games.”

     “Now,” he continues, walking across the stage, “as you all know, I am Milo Cartmello, and you are the potential tributes to be.”

     “Let’s listen to our beloved President Snow as he recounts the darkest times any of us could imagine.”

     The video plays. It’s the same video we see every year. I can’t help but watch closely, since it will be the last time I view it. I notice my grip on Scarlet’s hand slacking when she squeezes my hand quickly. I realize I’ve zoned out and missed the whole speech by Snow. Well, shit.

     “As always,” Milo’s suit glimmers in the sun as he walks out of the shadow and towards to bowls with our names in them. “May the odds be ever in your favor.”

     He approaches the girl’s container and shoves his hand into it. In the sport of suspense, he draws two cards out, raises a huge dark eyebrow, and puts one card back. I imagine the folks in the Capitol going crazy in suspense over his cheeky portrayal of choosing someone’s death sentence.

     “And our lucky female tribute from District 8 is,” He pauses dramatically as my stomach does flips, “Moire Breslow! Come join me on the stage, sweetie.” I get tunnel vision; It’s only me and Milo. My feet start walking. Is anybody going to volunteer for me? When did I let go of Scarlet? I’m on the stage before I recall walking up the steps.

     “Congratulations!” Milo pats me on the back. The odds are ever in my favor. Milo calls someone from the boys jar. I think I’m in shock. I shake hands with the boy without seeing him. The whole reaping turns into a blur. When I see my family, they are crying. I hug them, and I don’t feel anything. I cry, too. I am wrecked with sobs, heaving through my breaths and wiping snot from my leaking nose. I promise them I love them. I can’t seem to say it enough.

     “I love you, Mom.” I sob again, my head buried into her chest. I go to hug my dad, “I love you, Dad, too.” The peacekeepers pull them from the room and Scarlet walks in. She cradles me in her lap and I mumble my sadness into her.

     “I never thought I’d die this way, Scar, I’m so fucked, I can’t live.” She starts to pet my hair in comfort. “At least you’re safe,” I sit up and wipe the snot on my nose on the sleeve of my cardigan. “You’ll be safe from the games forever, now.”

     “I’m going to miss you forever.” She comments lightly.

     “I know.” I reply dryly, staring in to the space beside her in mental silence.

     “Moire,” Scarlet brings my attention back to the present. “I’ve always thought we’d have time,” she pauses, searching for the right words, “it’s not fair that I never got to –“ She exhales in frustration. I tilt my head in question, and she leans towards me. My eyes close and I meet her lips. Her lips are softer than mine. I start to taste my tears mingled into our kiss. “I love you,” Scarlet pulls away, “Maybe I’ll reconsider having kids.” I give a choked laugh at that as the peacekeepers come in to escort her away.

     “Goodbye.” I manage before she’s pulled from the room.


End file.
